Shortest Moments
by panic-at-thedirectory-services
Summary: John Watson yearns for his cold, distant companion's affections, but when his life spins out of control and his doubt seizes and strangles his hope, will he be able to manage?
1. Chapter 1

His breaths are warm and cause my skin to tingle as they escape his cotton candy lips; our eyes lock, cautious yet admiring creases forming in between his eyebrows as they tug upwards, a smile twitching on the sides of his mouth. Our noses scrape against each other, at first accidently, but I think he nuzzles mine again just for the feel of my touch. We have had moments like this before: moments where we feel an undeniable, irrefutable connection, like our hearts rip through our chests and beat as one. Moments where we're so close to one another physically, but even emotionally closer. Moments where all the shame, stress, and fear vanishes, and it's just me and him.

Of course, the moments never last long.

Sherlock clears his throat and pulls himself away from me. He continues to speak, but his voice is distorted, and I feel rather dizzy. My fingers clench to a chair as his baritone voice rumbles sexy syllables that I can't even begin to recognize.

A voice echoes in my ear, repeating and folding over itself, controlling me and making my chest clench and my eyelids flutter.

"John?" he says.

My body stiffens as I realize that he's staring at me—and not in the way he just was—with his eyebrows furrowed and his eyes narrowed and his lips parted.

"Oh, yes. Yeah, what?" I stumble over my words.

He scoffs, and my hearts lowers in my chest. "Where you _not _listening?" he groans.

I squint at him and open my mouth to say something snide, but then my eyes take in glimpses of his perfect skin, pale and smooth, and his dark hair that ripples out of his scalp like a dark brown river and his angular body and his jagged fingernails and his height that dominates over me but still gives me urges to reach up and touch him, touch him and memorize him with my hands.

"Well?" he shouts, his voice strained.

"Uh, yeah, no," I mumble. "I-I wasn't listening. Sorry."

"I _said _it was the mistress," Sherlock repeats, annoyed. I gap my mouth to ask him how he knows of this, but he only rolls his eyes and begins to explain, waving the question (that hadn't even exited my mouth) away. "His shirt collar had a smudge of red lipstick. The wife that was murdered—beautiful girl, _but _she wore a light shade of pink, not red. To confirm my suspicion, I was able to rummage through her purse only to find a tube of what else but light pink lipstick. I suspected that the husband always promised the mistress that he'd leave his wife. The mistress grew impatient and took matters into her own hands. I called Lestrade and asked if he would ask the man for his address books—three names were found: his brother, his mother, and his mistress. She's been arrested and convicted."

My eyebrows lift, even though I'm not surprised Sherlock solved the case. "Wow," I say. "That's…. incredible."

He puckers his lips (which causes my heart to rattle inside of my ribcage) and tilts his head from side to side. "Not one of my best cases," he replies. "Rather simple. I couldn't believe you didn't notice."

I sigh and ignore the pulsating annoyance thudding in my temple. "What are you going to do now?" I ask.

"Find a new case," he says. "Or else I might take up shooting."

"Oh, God," I moan. "Please don't."

Sherlock gives me a wicked grin, and I feel my body stiffen. I run my hand through my hair.

"Sherlock, I'm going to go out, all right?" I say, grabbing my coat. My hand barely grazes door knob as I turn back for his response.

"Where are you going?" he questions. Oh, I was glad for that. I didn't sound very curious as to where I would go, but the fact that he actually remembered to ask had to mean _something. _Sherlock Holmes wasn't one to be polite if it wasn't needed.

"Out for a walk," I respond, twisting the knob with a flick of my wrist.

"When will you be back?" I turn back to see him with raised eyebrows and inquisitive eyes.

I smirk. "Half an hour."

His gaze lowers to the ground, and he nods, biting his lower lip. "I'll see you then, John."

I chuckle. "I suppose you will." I open the door and exit our flat. Once the door is closed behind me, vibrations emanate in my jean pocket. I read the text, and I grin at the sight of his name.

**What the text said:**

_Come back soon. -SH_


	2. Chapter 2

I smile at my phone and stumble down the stairs, dizzy with ultimate joy. Exiting the building, I take a breath of fresh air, the purity of the oxygen cleansing my lungs, leaving me feeling fresh and blissful.

I can't stop grinning—I know it's not much. He might not even think of me that way, but if there's even a slight chance that he does, I'm going to keep praying.

A crater was gouged in my heart from the damage he'd inflicted when he jumped—when I held his limp, cold, breathless body in my arms as I sobbed manically, shrieking his name, yearning to hear a _thud-thud, thud-thud_ tap against the pads of my fingers—and my cheeks had been permanently soaked with salty, irrepressible tears. And then he'd returned. I had been reading my newspaper, sipping on my tea when I'd heard a familiar, though distant, voice.

"Did you make me a glass?"

His devious grin greeted me when I spun around, and I tackled him in a desperate hug, clinging to his body by his shoulder blades, my nails daggering into the fabric of his trench coat, my lips mumbling words into his scarf, tears stroking the side of my face.

My smile began to fade at the memory. How depressing it was that the first time I realized I loved him was the moment I thought he was gone—the moment we couldn't argue anymore, the moment we couldn't drink tea together, the moment he couldn't rant on about the stupidity of others, the moment he couldn't obsess over his superiority, the moment I couldn't hug him and feel his heartbeat rapidly pounding against my chest. The moment I couldn't tell him I loved him was the moment I knew that I did.

I lean against a wall and sigh, a headache thumping against my skull. I close my eyes and put the palms of my hands against my forehead, groaning in pain.

I shove myself forward, and my body begins to ache from exhaust, my arms limply hanging by my side, my feet stumbling. As I decide to head back home, a sharp prick of pain jolts through my thigh. I gasp from the sting and grasp the wounded area. My fingers clasp around a small needle, and blood trickles down my leg after I pull it out of my flesh. Breath escapes my lips, trembling and quaking, as my eyes pool with tears. Saliva in my mouth dries until there is nothing to moisten my tongue, and I pant as I stagger along the sidewalk, passing people who look like ghostly blurs and seeing flashes of bright, kaleidoscopic colors that block out my vision. Panic sets inside me, and the blood streaming through my veins seems to quicken, slushing through my arteries like a tsunami. My heartbeat pounds against my ears, causing earthquakes in my brain and an untamable rattling my skull. My vision darkens, and I only hear the sound of my breath and the horror of the people surrounding me, gasping and searching for an ambulance. Someone's arm cradles my head, and two pairs of hands clutch my body, lifting me off the ground. Lips sooth me, wrapping themselves around my cheek, and a soft puff of breath warms my ear as a mellifluous voice whispers, _"I'm not good at sharing." _


	3. Chapter 3

I pry my eyes open to complete darkness, and I am seemingly alone, expect for the sharp, deafening voices that withhold an undecipherable conversation—their voices are only noises, sounds, and not words that I recognize.

Slight movements enable me to discover about the place I am captured. A flick of the wrist—I feel a rough piece of rope scratching my skin and causing a rash to form on my flesh. A tug of the legs—I am restrained to a chair, rope holding me down, and with an attempt to shriek, I discover my mouth is covered with duct tape.

_Fantastic._

The voices lessen until there is nothing but insane silence surrounding me. Booms of footsteps occur, becoming louder and louder as they progress. My chin lowers, nearly touching my chest, and lights flip on, blinding me temporarily. I blink, and black dots stain my vision for a few moments until they clear, and I glance up to see a woman—not only a woman, but a naked one at that! Beside her stands a giant man in a suit and tie, his arms crossed and his lips unnaturally large for his thin face. I look up to see a light fixture swaying above me, and I stare back at the woman. The corners are shadowy and dim with what I assume are monsters lurking about, for scratching and dripping noises arise from the darkness.

"Hello," she purrs, her voice velvety and seductive, leaning forward so that her breasts perk out. I accidently examine her body, every crevice and every inch of her body, and I hope she doesn't notice. Her hair is crimped with a gorgeous shine to her brown hair. The blueness of her eyes is surreal and enchanting; I seem to get lost in them easily, as if they were a new world entirely on their own. She wears only black high heels and a diamond pinched into her belly button. Clenched in her hand is a whip that I hope she doesn't plan on using on me.

My Adam's apple bobs up and down, and she chuckles, shifting her weight from one hip to the other, her butt plump and her body slender.

"Do you know what I want from you?" she hums, her lips wet and pink, her tongue sliding over her front teeth. She approaches me with tenacity, and my heartbeats quickens. She smirks as if she knows it. She places the whip beside my chair and sits on my lap with her wandering hands stroking my neck and chest fondly, poking her chest out and sliding her body against mine. Her eyes gaze deep into mine.

"Do you?" she whispers. Fingertips climb up my neck to my chin and the side of my mouth, and they tickle the duct tape before grasping it and ripping it mercilessly off my face.

I groan, and my breath sputters.

Her nose scrunches up, and she grips the collar of my shirt tightly. "_Do you?_" she growls.

"No," I answer hesitantly. I sound weak, and a smile flickers on her lips. I force strength into my words, but the fear in my eyes is still apparent. "No, I don't."

Her body transfers heat to mine, but I still manage to shiver.

She giggles and reaches over for the whip. Staring at me, biting her lower lip, she snaps it behind me, the whip cracking thunderously. My chest clenches, and my breath quivers, which sparks a wide grin on her face.

"I won't hurt you if you give me what I want, John." Her voice is innocent like a child's, but her eyes spell out the word "devil".

"Yes, yes, take whatever you want, I don't care," I say, panicked. "Just—what do you want? Tell me."

Her head cocks to the side, and her eyebrows tug upwards as if she pities me. Her mouth parts, and she leans in close to me, her lips touching my ear. Her breath is warm and unpleasant, and I wish to push her away. She hovers above me for a few seconds before finally answering: "_Him._"

"What? I don't understand—" And suddenly, it clicks. What she wants, what she demands me to give her is the only thing in the world I really care about. The only thing I love.

Sherlock.

"But—I can't just…." My voice trails off, and she lifts herself from me. I cock my head to the side and watch her hair bounce as she skips in the lit parts of the room, her hands behind her back, her posture careless yet respectable. "Why did you capture _me_?"

"You are competition," she sighs. "I want him for myself."

"Why would you want _Sherlock?_"

She shrugs and ventures toward the darker parts of the room, wiggling her fingers above some sort of table. "Oh, I don't know," she moans. Her fingers clasp onto an object that I can't see. "Probably the same reason you do." Her hips pivot towards me, her arms extended, her fingers clenched around the object—a gun.

My heart leaps out of my chest as if it's attempting to run away.

She narrows her eyes at me and spits, "He's mine."

As her finger latches on to the trigger, I close my eyes and begin to count, because what else am I supposed to do? I can't tell Sherlock all that I've ever felt for him, I can't tell my mother I love her, I can't do anything. All I can do is count to five and prepare to die.

_One._

I think of his lips speaking at a rapid pace, spewing out intellectual comments and utilitarian deductions and often spiteful or condescending remarks.

_Two._

I think of his cunning gestures and his confident movements. Both his regular habits—such as the way his tucks in his scarf or makes his tea—and his unpredictable notions—like hiding frozen eyeballs from me in the freezer or attempting to keep a small fetus that has developed two heads.

_Three._

All the realistic, unchangeable things about him: his deep voice, his pale muscles, his intelligent discourse, the incredible ideas he produces when his brain isn't properly stimulated, how he can go days without speaking to a soul, how he claims to be the most superior, godly human being but refuses to go out to the store and purchase a carton of milk.

_Four._

My mind wanders into my fantasies: the way his soft skin grinds against mine as we lay in bed together, the way he kisses me (timidly at first and then with an aggressive passion), the way I run my fingers through his hair when he places his head on my lap, the way he smiles coyly at the sight of me in the morning, the way he says I love—

_Five._


	4. Chapter 4

I expect a piercing pain in my skull or a splatter of blood from my forehead or some kind of sign that I'd been shot and killed, but I only feel a small headache from where my eyebrows furrowed. Fearfully, I let out a trembling breath and slowly open my eyes. The woman in front of me laughs cynically, and a frown deepens on my face. I open my mouth to say something, but she seductively brings her finger to her lips, moaning a cunning and melodious _shhhhh, _as her finger catches on her lip, pulling it down until it bounces back.

She lets out a breath as well and brings the gun back towards her, tapping it on the back of her hand, her eyes thoughtfully staring off into space. "Why do I love Sherlock Holmes?" she says, pronouncing each word slowly and precisely. She sticks her finger in through the trigger and spins it around. "He's witty," she explains with high eyebrows and pouty lips. She'd be beautiful if I didn't feel an undying compulsion to hate her. "He's…. clever, and he knows me." Her eyebrows crease. "But that's insignificant, because he knows everybody." One eyebrow heightens, and a wicked grin strikes her face. "He knows me _sexually._" Her grin turns into a smile when she notices my discomfort. I try not to make eye contact, but I realize that's what she wants—my distressed and tortured expression. I stare her down with a bitter hatred plastered on my face.

She continues. "He's absolutely _gorgeous. _Oh, but you know that. His curls, his figure, his arms, his skin—and, my, those cheekbones." She drops the gun on the floor and sashays over to the darkest corner in the dim-lit room. Her arm reaches into the blackness and retrieves a coat, slipping it over her nude body. I think nothing of it at first (only giving God my thanks) but then I sense the familiarity of the coat: the rough fabric, the wrinkles forming at the elbow, and how the collar stuck up to make her seem cool. I realize whose coat it is.

Sherlock's.

Rage ignites in my chest, and I begin to thrash about, though it's hopeless because the rope burns against my skin. "What have you done to him?" I growl protectively. "Tell me, have you hurt him?"

Her head cocks to the side as she ties a belt around her waist to display her figure. "Oh, no, sweet darling, no," she coos, her voice pitying and mockingly appeasing. "Piece it together—what does Sherlock always say? Deduce. _Deduce,_ my lovely John Watson." She waits for a moments and sighs. "You won't get it. You're obviously dafter than I thought." She puts her hands behind her back and paces back and forth, her gazes sharp like a phoenix's beak. "I'm in love with Sherlock Holmes. I have his coat. I captured you, and I mean to kill you. You've been to enough crime scenes to figure this out—what's the one thing that would make this murder more appealing?"

I concentrate for a moment—_think, think, think, John, think_—and I gasp at the realization, my eyes widening, my throat going dry. "Have him watch me die," I choke out.

"Ooh," she murmurs. "Maybe you're not as stupid as I thought."

"Where is he?" I shout. "Tell me, damn it, where is he?!" Her eyes narrow, and the most odious smirk of pleasure appeared on her face. Flames of fury grow harsher as if someone tossed an entire gallon of gasoline on top of it. "_Where is he?_" I roar.

Amused, she treks back to the darkened corner and pulls out a human being with pale skin and vacant eyes.

My heart clamors in my ribcage at the sight of him.

His mouth remains unsmiling, and his eyes contain no humor and, seemingly, no life. His purple, silk shirt is tight against his torso, folding over itself as he moves, fitting comfortably and exhibiting his thin but muscular body well. I feel the urge to run to him and never let him go, and I yearn for him, for him to feel the same way.

"Sherlock," I whimper, struggling once again, the burning crisp on my wrists. "Sherlock, tell me this isn't serious. You're kidding, you're just bored, this is a trick to get back at me for throwing out your experiment the other week, isn't it?" His pale, blue eyes lower to the ground, and I shove tears back. "Isn't it?"

His lips part, and the woman beside him looks up at him expectantly. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice hoarse and severe. He clears his throat, and his voice is abysmal and thick as he says my name: "John."

My heart collides with my stomach, and I feel as though I'm going to be sick.

The woman grins, her lips looking soft. "Sherlock," she commands with a sharp tone. Immediately, he responds by picking up the gun, his movements mechanical and robotic. He slaps the gun to her palm, her fingers briskly wrapping around it, and he avoids my gaze.

"My name is Lilith Isles," she announces, "and I will be the murderer of John Watson."

Before I can close my eyes or count to five, a gunshot fires, and darkness encompasses my entire being. I take a breath, and I am sure it is my last.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't remember anything.

I try to, but I can't.

I remember the darkness, the fear, the shock, the gunshot.

I don't remember what happened afterwards.

I assumed I was dead—the gunshot was deafening, and it was directed straight at me. What made her want to allow me to live? Obviously she was the one who had control on whether or not I'd die—what convinced her?

A minty fragrance pinches my nose, burning my nostrils because of its proximity and quantity, and I recognize the scent. It covers the flat—it is Sherlock. My face is buried into his sheets, and I lift myself up numbly. My jaw aches, and a thudding persistently pounds in the back of my head, but no fatal wounds exist. I also realize that I am naked, spread out on Sherlock's mattress. I grinned a little. I had always dreamt of this—lying nude in Sherlock's bed, but in my fantasies, he had been here with me. Not with a murderous dominatrix who had a thing for my flatmate.

I rub my skull and groan, tearing the sheet from the mattress like Sherlock used to and wearing it as a cape. I enter the kitchen and get moderately blinded by the morning sunlight. I made coffee and leaned against the counter, surveying the mess Sherlock had made on the dining table. From the looks of it, Sherlock had spread out a fine exhibition of bodily anatomy—tongues stripped of their skin, eyeballs marinating in a gooey, green liquid, the left portion of a brain, slightly dissected with a part of it slipped under the microscope, and a human hand. An entire human hand, just lying on the counter casually. What a demented mind Sherlock has.

My attention is brought to a sheet of paper, dampened by a bluish liquid that had once held some sort of animal's testicles.

The ink is mildly ruined by the water, but I can make out the womanly femininity of a signature.

A light flashes in my eyes, and my pupils dilate and burn, my face reddening and perspiring, my breaths becoming heavier and heavier. Dizziness clouds my mind, and I fall forward onto a chair. Bursts of images speed through my brain, but I don't know what they are of. Finally, they begin to slow down, and I see silhouettes, touching, tugging, pulling, grasping, zero inches apart, their clothes being the only thing that separates them from being one. The couple illuminates and glows, and I recognize them: Sherlock and Lilith. Kissing, feeling, giggling, loving. Loving like I wish we—he and I—would. Breaths escape me, and my lungs ache, and the image disintegrates and transforms into a nude Sherlock and a nude Lilith, holding hands, their fingers intertwined, smiling. Smiling like they knew I was watching, like they were happy together, happy to spend the rest of forever together.

The simple notion of holding hands—it deserves—it _requires_—an emotion connection. One-night stands don't hold hands. They screw, they have fun for one night, and they never fall in love. That isn't the case with Lilith and Sherlock.

Again, it evolves in a whirlwind of kaleidoscopic imagery, and I see Sherlock in a tuxedo. He extends his hand, and for a moment, I consider reaching out. But I don't. Because Lilith leaps into his arms, tackling him in a hug, kissing, and she's wearing a white dress. They were getting married, with flowers decorating a church and a preacher who declared them husband and wife.

My eyelids clench shut, and I gasp as I open them, sucking in breaths because I have been forgetting to.

I don't know what Lilith did to me, but she wants me to see those pictures.

She wants me to so that I will back off.

But the idea of them kissing, getting married, and maybe having kids….

That only makes me desire Sherlock Holmes even more.


	6. Chapter 6

I desire him, but I don't know where to look. Lilith isn't nearly as clever as him, but if he's in on it…. he could be anywhere.

But he's _not _in on it.

He's never shown care for a human being, never shown love; Jesus Christ, he's never even kissed someone before!

Well, not that I'm aware of.

I avoid thinking about that.

I have no idea where Sherlock is, and there hasn't been any sign of him. No one at St. Bart's has seen him, and he's practically vanished from the face of the Earth.

But he's too proud to do that.

Often, I sleep in his bed, just to get the smell of him, to reassure myself that I won't forget, but lately, his scent has faded. I need him now, more than ever. I sometimes forget he's even gone—I call his name, or text him, or tell him I'm going out, as if I expect a response. It hurts when I realize that there won't be one.

I awake in an electric sweat, chills surging on my flesh, redundant images flashes before me. It's always the same dream—kissing passionately, nudity, marriage. It's repetitious and uncreative, but it breaks me apart just the same.

I sigh as I leap out of bed like Sherlock used to, bounding into the kitchen, pouring myself a cup of cold, bland coffee that I made last night using the last of the coffee beans. I lean against the counter like I always do and imagine what he'd say.

_Goodness, John, _he yawns in my mind. _Do you ever mix it up? Your life is so boring and redundant. You're lucky you have me._

"I know," I reply, despite the fact he isn't here. I frown and pour the rest of my coffee down the drain. Jesus, how I miss him.

The feminine signature still mocks me, and I only glower at it. I haven't had the courage to read it yet—it inflicts too many painful photographs in my head. But now, Sherlock has been gone for a week. I'm desperate.

I rip the paper from under the wet jar and avoid touching the stained parts of the parchment. The ink is tainted and messy, but still decipherable. Images flash in front of me, punctuating each word.

_John._

He holds her delicate hands, tenderly and lovingly, as he gazes at me with a merciless hatred.

_I'm really sorry._

He removes his hand from hers and instead caresses her cheek, peppering her face with impossibly soft kisses.

_This is my note._

The photos warp into something else—a different image that I've seen before: a memory. I stare up at him again, his arms spread out as if they were wings, but we're not children. We both know that if he falls—if he jumps—_he will not fly._

_My final goodbye._

I see his knees bend, the perfect imperfections of his entire being illuminate as they again straighten and he falls, murdered by gravity with the heartless concrete as an accomplice. I hear myself and others gasp, as they approach them. I don't remember moving, but suddenly, I'm struggling past people, hearing a weak, broken voice saying, "Stop! He's my friend!" and I realize that it is me.

_You were a good friend._

The sight of blood had never sickened me, but as the crimson flooded out of his skull, tarnishing the concrete as pale as his skin, my vision darkened and blotched. He was so cold—and not in the way he normally was. Cold in a…. revolting, inevitable way. That was the moment I knew he was dead.

_-Sherlock Holmes._


	7. Chapter 7

And that was it. I had read the last connection to him, and that had even been tarnished by _her._ The womanly signature at the bottom was difficult to decipher but there: _Lilith Isles._

I sobbed manically, because he was gone. Gone again. And I know he came back last time—but I had a feeling this time he wouldn't. This hurt worse. This time he had a choice of coming back or not, and he had chosen to stay with her.

And after all we'd been through. After all the careful transactions, all the simple conversations, all the goofy laughter, all the understanding we shared. Just gone, because he gave it up for some woman.

The anger, the grief, the pressure—it was all too much. The flat had never been smaller in my entire life, and I felt so confined, so isolated, and my vision was blurred from tears and my face was hot. I didn't grab my jacket as I stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling once or twice, as I raced down Baker Street, my arms pumping despite the tightness and aching in my muscles, my legs taking long strides despite their lack of length, my throat slick despite how much I screamed sprinting down that road. Sweat traced the wrinkles on my forehead as I stared up at the building—the building where he once jumped, his arms flailing, his body looking so beautiful, so elegant, despite his inevitable bloody death. My chest concaved as I exhaled and released another painful sob. With a leap, I began my journey up the building, shoving past people brutally, ignoring people's calls to me rudely, but what did I care? I was on a mission.

My legs were wobbly as I approached the ledge. My hands quavered as if my phalanges were experiencing an earthquake, and my mouth was dry. I needed to do this. I had to. What other reason is there to live if I can't live with a Sherlock Holmes?

And it's not like I can replace him. Who could possibly replace him? A mortal who acts like God, who strives to be one. I've never met anyone like that, and I never will. Not because I'm going to be dead, but because there's not such a man out there like Sherlock Holmes.

So now I stand on a concrete ledge, my arms stuck out like wings, and I know it's impossible to fly. But, hell, it's worth a shot.


	8. Chapter 8

Arms wrap around me, violently pulling me back, so hard that my spine pops and I lose my breath, but I suppose that's better than losing my life. Everything's a blur: I see buildings, I see the sky, and I see dark curls flying in the air as a rumbling voice speaks to me, rambling, panicking, and my eyes widen.

"Sherlock," I gasp.

Sherlock sits on his bum on the concrete of the building roof, and I in his lap, his arms encompassing me with tender care, and it is only then that I realize he's sobbing. He manages to choke out my name in his beautiful, quivering voice, and his tears fall onto me. The blue-green of his eyes is tarnished with traumatic agony, and guilt fills me—I realize it's because of me. I never meant to cause him grief. I meant to end my own.

I know it's selfish. But once you're all alone, you forget to care for other people.

"Sherlock," I purr softly, warmly. My fingers hover above his alabaster skin that is stained with salty tears. Sherlock has never looked more innocent and vulnerable, and I nearly smile, but his sobs against me cause me pain. I sit up beside him. I use the pads of my fingers to wipe away the tears, and I smile. "Sherlock, you're back."

My detective smiles and laughs, despite his wails. "Yeah," he whimpers. "Yes, John, I'm back."

My heart swells with joy, but then crumbles with guilt. "I'm so sorry," I say, my voice rough and hushed. "I thought you had left me."

"I know," Sherlock sighs, swallowing sobs. "Don't feel guilty. I would've done the same thing if you left me that way." He shakes his head and uses his large hand to pull me into him, my head against his chest, his chin on my skull, as he breathes me in. "It wasn't my fault, John. She captured me. She drugged you, and that's how she got you into the cab, into the building, and the drugs implemented fake images to give you paranoia. She was never going to kill you. She wanted you to kill yourself." Sherlock's pale, cold lips touch my skin, and warmth blossoms and tingles my flesh. "She made you do it."

My face burrows deeper into Sherlock's chest as it trembles, and my fingers cling to his coat. "I love you, Sherlock," I hum.

I don't expect to hear it back; honestly, I'm so frightened that I really can only hear replications of my own weak voice, but his voice, the voice of a thunderstorm, strong and impressive, repeats the phrase with great sincerity: "I love you, too, John."

I nearly gasp, but I swallow it, not wanting to sound desperate. "What happened to...?"

Sherlock's eyelids fall closed. "She's gone now."

I exhale, my brows furrowing as my fingernails dagger into Sherlock's shirt; Sherlock doesn't react. "You're…. safe."

"Yes, John," Sherlock confirms softly.

I let out a small laugh that is interrupted with the sound of a gunshot.

_No._

Sherlock's body triggers, twisting out from under me, clutching himself.

_NO!_

Blood drips from his clothes as I crawl to him, muttering and bawling, shrieking his name: "_SHERLOCK!" _The thick crimson collects in puddles on the cold concrete roof. I search for an assassin, but fail to do so. I only spill tears and crumble before Sherlock, who now stares at me as he lies on his back, clutching his heart.

And I'm a doctor.

I've seen these things before, and I know how to handle it.

But it's completely different when it's the one you love who is dying.

"Sherlock," I breath, crawling beside him, cradling his head on my forearm. "Sherlock, please," I beg shakily, ripping his clothes from him to examine the wound. "Don't, don't, don't." My eyebrows tug upwards and my frown deepens at the sight of a small, dark red crater above Sherlock's heart, sullying his smooth, sweet skin. "Sherlock," I whimper.

The paleness of his skin was frightening, but the glistening tears in his eyes were even more so. My chest trembles in shock and lean my head down farther to him, my forehead touching his. His breaths are short, quick, sharp, and I can tell every, single one of them hurts, but he continues to breath. For me. "John," he rasps, "John, I love you."

My face crinkles up in misery. "Sherlock," I say. "It's not going to be the last time you say that, okay? That's right, yeah. You promise?"

A faint smile spasms on Sherlock's face, but it then fades. The shake of his head is curt, but noticeable, and I sob.

I touch his face. He feels cold, and my brain reminds me it's because it's the skin of an almost-dead person. I swallow a sob and I kiss him, I kiss him finally for the first time, and when I pull away, he's smiling. "I love you," I bawl.

"I love…." Pain strikes against his face, and saying the last word will hurt too much for him, but I know what he means, and I kiss him again, so that he can focus on me, on our love, on my affection, my fondness, my adoration for my special, human detective.

And there's the moment. The moment all things are rewritten, the moment we are completely understood as we gaze into each other's eyes, seeing everything, our entire lives spanned out in our pupils, and then we see now. We see the love for one another, and it's not so short this time. It doesn't fade.

Sherlock's eyes are watery, and they sparkle. They sparkle one last time, one time for me, and then he's gone. He's gone for good this time.

The love didn't fade until it had to: it didn't fade until his eyes, his entire being, was lifeless.

And I cried.

* * *

**Author's Note: I'm sorry. THE END.**


End file.
